“Quorra, what—what is this?”
Her grin is loud as she presses the ticket into Sam’s hand. “A VIP ticket to Macklemore’s show in San Diego!” she chirps, and then puts a second piece of paper in his other hand. “And a backstage pass!”
Sam stares at the tickets. “To—to a Macklemore show? I—Quorra—”
“He’s your favorite rapper, I know,” Quorra says, putting a hand on his arm. “And I figured, well—it’s been a year since you brought me from the Grid. And I want to thank you.”
Now Sam stares at her. “With Macklemore tickets.”
She nods. “With Macklemore tickets.”
“I…” he starts. He had told her that his favorite rapper was Macklemore. He’d meant it as a joke—“White dude? From Seattle? Oh, yeah, that’s definitely favorite rapper material”—but he hadn’t expected that, of all things, to go over Quorra’s head.
… Or did it?
He looks at her. Like, looks at her looks at her. Thinks back on the last few seconds, tries to find any sign of sarcasm in her face. And, unfortunately, finds nothing but sincerity in her eyes.
“I… thank you, Quorra,” he says, his grin a little tight. “I—I appreciate this. Truly.”
“Of course, Sam,” Quorra replies, and brings him into a hug.
As he turns away, he wonders if he imagined the flash of a smirk on her lips.
“Quorra, turn that off,” Alan says as he enters the apartment. “Didn’t Flynn want you to learn for the betterment of humanity or something?”
“I am learning,” Quorra retorts with a grin. “And learning about celebrity divorces will help me better humanity or something.”
Alan snorts as he shucks off his overcoat. “Uh-huh.”
Quorra turns back to the celebrity gossip show, which is currently doing a slow pan over the same picture of Tom Cruise they’d shown about a billion times already. Alan, despite the look of utter distaste he’s been shooting at the TV since he got in, moves to stand next to the couch and watch.
“Where’s Sam, by the way?” he asks.
“Oh—probably still at the Macklemore show,” Quorra replies. “I got him a backstage pass and everything.”
Alan looks at her with a disbelieving grin. “Macklemore? Quorra, he hates Macklemore.”
Quorra cackles. “Oh, I know.”
“Oh, god.” Alan laughs, though he sounds thoroughly guilty about it. “I wonder how he’s enjoying that.”
Quorra’s about to make a very clever quip when the show’s transition music suddenly blares and the voice-over shouts, “Backstage escapade! ENCOM’s CEO and the Seattle rapper found macking—and more!”
Quorra and Alan stare at each other, frozen.
“… I’m afraid to look,” Alan says.
“I am, too,” Quorra says.
They both turn to see a grainy, and yet all too clear, picture of Sam passionately kissing Macklemore outside his dressing room, his hand on the rapper’s ass.
“Well,” Alan says after a moment. “That was quick.”
“Yeah,” Quorra says. “Normally these shows cover what happened over the previous week.”
“I meant Sam and Macklemore, but that, too.”
“Oh.” Quorra keeps watching the broadcast—morbid curiosity, the images burning into her mind. “Does this mean we’ll have to invite Macklemore over for Thanksgiving?”
“Oh, god.” This time Alan’s voice drips with horror. “No. There’s no—I mean, their relationship won’t last that long.” He pauses. “Can it?”
The question hangs unanswered in the air. The show colorfully moves onto the next piece of gossip, and Quorra decides that she’s not good at giving gag gifts after all.